Anything But Lonely previously All By Myself
by BabyCaramel
Summary: Rentfic from Mark's perspective. Very angsty but a happy ending. Rated for language. Please read & review.
1. Prologue: I Remember

((Disclaimer: These characters, sadly, belong not to me but to Jonathon Larson, who deserves endless thanks for creating them!! Please read and let me know what you think - but be nice or at least constructive because this is my first Rentfic. I've edited this a little bit so it's not in third-person anymore. In case anyone cared. *smiles* Whatever, just read.)) 

  
**Anything But Lonely** (previously titled **All By Myself**) 

**Prologue: I Remember**

  
I walked down the street, my arms wrapped tightly around myself in vain hope of trapping in some body heat. The wind whipped bitterly against my thin frame, chilling the tears that trickled down my cheeks. "December 25th, eight PM, Eastern Standard Time. I can't believe I'm talking to myself," I mumbled. "When did it come to this? The camera's gone, and still I narrate for some film that doesn't exist and never will." I sighed and turned a corner. "So what do I do now?" I wondered, making sure to think in my head this time. "The same thing I've always done, I guess; the only thing I know how to do: analyze the past." I found an empty alley and sat down behind a garbage bin, away from the relentless winds and the distraction of passing strangers. 

I guess it all began about a month and a half ago. November 12th, 1999, to be exact: the night Mimi died. Oh, we all knew it was coming. I knew it as soon as she started coughing. "It's just the flu," she insisted. But that wasn't true, couldn't be true; only healthy people get "just the flu." For someone with AIDS, that influenza virus can be a death threat. And for Mimi, that's what it would mean -- death. 

After that first day of coughing, she got progressively worse. The doctor tried to help, but well, we were all broke and there wasn't much the doctor would do for free. So Roger and I -- well, mostly me, Roger was kind of a wreck by that point - I fixed up the couch in the loft for her. That's where she stayed for about three days. Finally, as Roger cradled her frail, fading figure in his arms, the rest of us (Maureen, Joanne, Collins, and I) watched as Mimi took her last breath. 

I remember right before she went, she said "I love you," and she wasn't just talking to Roger - she meant all of us. God, we were a family then. Ever since Christmas Eve last year, when Mimi had her near-death experience, the six of us had been practically inseparable. Nothing could break us up - strange to think how easily we've fallen apart now. But I'm getting ahead of myself.


	2. Silent Heart

((Disclaimer: Again, not my characters but Jonathon Larson's, the late genius and king of modern musical theare. Please read and let me know what you think - but do be gentle because this is my first Rentfic.)) 

  
**Anything But Lonely** (previously titled **All By Myself**) 

**Chapter One: Silent Heart**

  
I think it started when Mimi passed away. Well, to be honest it began a long time before that. It took root the day Roger met her. But that's another story entirely, one that I think has already been told way too many times, not to mention captured on my film. The dilemma I'm currently faced began after Mimi's death. 

After she whispered her last words, I remember glancing at Roger. A tear slid down his face. Never in my life had I seen Roger cry -- not when his girlfriend April killed herself, not when he got beat up in junior high, not even when his dad ran out on the family freshman year. That single tear told me more than all the words he'd ever spoken. 

I crept closer and placed my arm around his shoulders. He shrugged me off gruffly. "Roger, it's me, come on," I coaxed. But he ignored my offer of comfort, turning and retreating to his room. I sighed deeply and gave my friends a helpless look. 

"He'll be okay, Mark. Just give him time," Collins' deep, soothing voice assured me. "When he's ready, he'll come around." 

"Doesn't he see what he's doing? This is exactly how he acted when April died. It didn't solve anything then, and it's not going to now either." I sunk to the floor and pouted. 

Collins seated himself beside me. "What was he really upset about then?" 

I looked at him inquisitevely. "What do you mean?" I asked. 

"What I'm saying is, April and Roger weren't truly in love, not the kind of love he had with Mimi. Sure, he was sad to see April die. But anyone who thinks his depression was entirely caused by her death is blind. You know as well as I do that they were growing apart anyway. He was more concentrated on his band, and she felt neglected. They wouldn't have lasted another two or three months at the most." 

My eyes followed Maureen as she gingerly placed a blanket over Mimi then wrapped her arms around Joanne, who was speaking on the phone. Maureen saw me staring and she offered a tiny smile of encouragement which betrayed the rest of her red, tear-streaked face. I turned back to Collins, unable to force my lips upward to reciprocate Maureen's gesture. "It was the AIDS," I stated simply. 

Collins nodded in agreement. "You don't know what that's like, Mark. Nobody does until they feel it for themselves. I can guess exactly what was going through Roger's mind then, and I can also guess what's going through his mind now. Believe me, learning you have AIDS is bad, but losing the love of your life is infinitely worse." 

I was struck by a sudden feeling of complete exhaustion. Too many things had happened that day, and too many thoughts were racing in my head. I needed to get away from everything. "It's late," I mumbled. 

Maureen checked her watch. "It's only 11," she told me. "You never go to bed before midnight." 

"We've all been through a lot for one day, let's try to get some sleep," Collins said. 

"I'll wait up for the mortician," Joanne offered. 

Maureen slipped a comforting arm around her girlfriend's waist. "I'll stay with you, pookie." 

"You guys are all free to crash here tonight if you want," I said, standing. They thanked me, and we all said our goodnights. But before I retired to my bedroom, I decided to check on Roger. The door was slightly ajar, just enough for me to pop my head in. Roger was sprawled out, face-down, on top of the covers. He was silent but his shaking shoulder gave away the fact that he was crying. 

"Goodnight, Roge," I whispered, shutting the door entirely. 

- - - - -

When I awoke the next day, Collins and Maureen were already preparing breakfast. She boiled water for tea and set the coffe maker while he scrambled omelets at the stove, pulling items from a grocery bag as he went along. I noticed Joanne straightening things up in the living room. 

"Is Roger awake?" I inquired, rubbing sleep from my eyes. 

"No, not yet," Collins answered as he sliced and diced. 

"I'll let him sleep a little longer," I mumbled, mostly to myself. I crept over to Roger's door and nudged it open. There Roger was, dozing in the fetal position with his bedsheets tangled between his legs. He'd obviously slept fitfully that night, but now his body lay still, peacefully resting. 

I studied his face -- the dark, puffy bags underneath his eyes, the indentations on his cheeks from the wrinkled pillow, the thin lips which were slightly parted in a sleep-induced stupor. I was tempted to record him on film but decided against that, knowing that if he woke up and saw me, I'd be as dead as . . . 

Don't even say it, I thought. Why?, I argued with myself. Silence won't bring her back. 

As quietly as possible, I shut the door again and joined the chefs in the kitchen. "Smells delicious," I complimented as Collins transferred an omelet from pan to plate. 

Maureen handed me the coffee pot and sat on the counter, stirring her tea. English Breakfast with a splash of skim milk and two packets of Sweet & Low. I knew everybody's beverage preferences by heart, especially Roger & Maureen. 

I poured the steaming black Folger's into a plain white mug and took a huge gulp. The heat and bitterness burned my tongue -- I never drank my coffee plain -- but it certainly woke me up. 

"Should we go through Mimi's stuff today?" Maureen wondered aloud. Mimi's will specified that we decide as a group who receives what, based on who has the most need or sentimental value attached to each item. (Which meant Roger would get nearly everything.) After that, we were to donate the rest to Goodwill, considering that's where she got most of it in the first place. 

"I don't know," Joanne said tentatively. "We should probably wait until Roger's ready." 

I shook my head. "If past behavior lends any credence, Roger won't be ready for months. We might as well do it now, rather than sit around moping." 

"Please," Collins begged as he forced a plate into my hands, "Eat breakfast first." 

Despite my somber mood, I smiled. "Okay, we'll eat first," I consented, joining my friends at the kitchen table. 

Halfway through the meal, Roger's door creaked open. He walked out slowly, his disheveled blond hair still uncombed and his pajama pants sagging ever-so-slightly at the waist. It was then that I realized Roger had grown thinner since Mimi took sick. I hoped it was just a reaction to being so glum, and not a symptom of impending illness. With his stress level, his already-frail immune system was practically nonexistent. Even the slightest cold would weaken him considerably and make him highly susceptible to something deadly. I didn't want Roger's life to end the way Mimi's did, quickly, meaninglessly, and with unfinished business left behind. 

I warmed his cup of coffee in the microwave and stirred in a packet of sugar. Roger didn't look up when I placed the mug on the table beside him. 

"Morning," I greeted. No reply. "Collins made omelets if you want one." His face registered no reaction, and for a moment I had to make sure I'd actually spoken out loud. Shrugging, I took a plate of food from Collins and set it with Roger's coffee. "You should eat," I prodded gently. 

Joanne sidled up next to me. "We're gonna go home and get cleaned up, hon," she said. Her voice always had a way of comforting me, as though she'd wrapped her arms around me, stroked my hair, and promised everything would be alright. "Call us if we can help with anything. Otherwise we can go through the, uh, property tomorrow." We were all afraid to speak Mimi's name around Roger. 

I nodded and gave both her and Maureen a hug. Once they left, Collins and I cleaned up the kitchen, then he went to his room. In a few weeks Collins had to leave for Austin, to teach at the University of Texas. I know he wished he could stay, but we were all short on money (especially after paying for Mimi's funeral arrangements) and this was a rare opportunity. Whether he planned to impart his theory of "actual reality" upon the students there, I don't know; I can probably make a pretty good guess, though. 

Now Roger and I were alone in the living room. Of course, I might as well have been the only person there. Roger certainly was elsewhere mentally. I tossed one more glance is way before venturing into his bedroom. Mimi's stuff was already stored in boxes by the closet. Collins had offered to do that when we realized she wasn't going to make it this time. 

Sighing, I plopped down on the floor and dragged the first box toward me. I reached in to find a framed photograph, a still shot which I had taken on New Year's Eve. Roger was holding up a rope suggestively and Mimi held a cheap plastic cup filled halfway with equally cheap champagne. 

On an empty box I scrawled "ROGER'S" in permanent marker then set the frame inside. He would want that, if he ever pulled out of his present state. 

Next I discovered a black leather shoulder-sleeve thingy. (Okay, I have no idea what they're called -- ha, proof that I'm not gay!) It was part of Mimi's favorite outfit. She only wore it on special occasions, like Christmas Eve and Roger's first performance of "Your Eyes" at a club. This also went in the Roger box. Not only did he think she looked particularly sexy in it, the clothing held special significance since it was the first outfit he ever saw her in. 

I pulled out a black pager in a leopard-print case. "AZT break!" Mimi's voice, perenially upbeat, echoed through my mind. No use for this anymore, I figured. I wondered how many doses she probably missed in the days before she got sick. That was one thing Mimi and Roger had in common: a tendency toward forgetfulness. 

Tossing the pager angrily to the side, I reached into the box and discovered a large pink binder. It was decorated with pressed flowers -- Mimi liked to act tough but she had a secret feminine side, too -- and labeled "Mimi's Scrapbook." Intrigued, I turned to the first page. A large picture of her smiling face filled almost the entire sheet. It was dated January 1997. Before she met Roger. Before she became a junkie, too, it seemed. Her eyes still sparkled healthily and her cheeks were full and rosy. I started to tear up; it was hard to imagine the girl in this image morphing into a drug-hardened AIDS victim, with gaunt cheeks, limp hair, and dull, listless eyes. I removed the page from the rings of the notebook and put it in Roger's box. 

The next page displayed two pictures, one of Mimi and Roger at the Life Cafe, Christmas Eve '97. The other I took secretly as they shared their small, lovely kiss amid the chaos of the riot. As far as I know, it was their first kiss. Another item for Roger. 

Then came a page with individual photos of the family, taken at various times throughout that first year: Roger strumming his guitar (folowed by one of Roger reacting angrily to having his picture taken.) Me, grinning for my own camera after Mimi begged me to let her snap a photo at a night club. Maureen, mooning the audience at her protest. Joanne winking (presumably at Maureen). Collins, in the midst of an impromptu philosophy lecture at the loft, where I was probably the only person actually listening. Angel, posing stylishly in her Santa garb. Finally, Mimi dancing at the Kat Scratch Club, her leg wrapped around a pole during one of her tamer routines. 

I decided to keep this sheet, pondering ways to integrate the stills into my next film. If I ever finished it, anyway. 

I sifted through the rest of the scrapbook, dividing pictures up to the people featured in each. One I kept for myself, though. It was a wide view and I had no idea who of our friends owned a widescreen lens. On one side of the photo I was curled up on the couch, reading something. The other side showed Roger, perched on the table with his guitar as usual, but something was unfamiliar. Instead of playing he was watching me. The entire scene drew a blank in my mind -- I couldn't remember the occasion at all. It felt unusual to see Roger staring at my oblivious self, rather than the other way around. 

Carefully I placed the photograph in my box. I selected a few more of Mimi's belongings for myself, Collins, Maureen, and Joanne, then stored the rest in Roger's box. If necessary he could go through it later (I was guessing much later) and choose what to keep and what to donate. 

When I exited Roger's room, he was still motionless on the couch. I honestly don't think he had moved a single muscle while I was gone. "Hey," I called. "Your breakfast's gonna get cold." He didn't so much as peek at the plate. I sighed and threw myself down next to him, causing him to bounce on the cushion. 

"Look," I started, "you've pulled this before, Roge. I know you're upset. I know you're grieving. But that's no reason to retreat into a shell." My hand brushed his arm. "You can talk to me, remember? You can trust me. We're best buddies." I took on a more firm tone. "You've gotta open up to someone. If you harbor everything inside you'll explode. You of all people you should know that it doesn't solve anything." 

Roger glanced at me from the corner of his eye. Well, at least it was some sort of movement. 

"Please, I miss you. I don't like depressed-Roger. I wanna see the old, thankful-to-be-alive Roger. That's the guy I became best friends with in 7th grade. You know I'll support you no matter what. I just hate to see you hurt yourself."


	3. Leaving On Your Mind

((Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. Thanks to Jonathon Larson for creating them. Please read and let me know what you think. Even if you've read it before, please read again because I've rewritten this chapter and added some stuff. BTW, for those of you who have been urging me to make the story M/R -- I officially hate you all, because I gave in! :-)Not in this chapter though, not for a while. So you'll just have to keep reading.)) 

  
**Anything But Lonely**

**Chapter Two: Leaving On Your Mind**

  
"Shh! He's coming," Maureen whispered. We all grew silent as she flipped the light switch. I heard footsteps on the stairs, then the door creaked open. 

"Surprise!" the three of us (Joanne, Maureen, and myself) shouted when Collins entered. 

"Wow, you guys. . ." he said, a shocked smile on his face. "You didn't have to do this, really!" 

"Yeah, but we wanted to," Maureen countered. "You won't be back for months. We couldn't let our favorite boy leave without a big good-bye!" 

"Hey, I thought I was our favorite boy!" I teased. 

Collins laughed. "Thanks, this means a lot to me," he said, gathering us into a group hug. 

As we embraced, I couldn't help my eyes from wandering over to where Roger sat, alone on the couch. He hadn't moved from that spot in weeks, not even to go to Mimi's funeral. I didn't attend either. To be honest, I hadn't left the loft since Mimi's death. I was afraid to abandon Roger. If I left and something happened to him, I would never forgive myself. So I stayed, tending to Roger like a hospice caretaker. I was probably the big joke among the rest of our friends. "Look at Mark," I could just imagine them whispering behind my back. "Poor guy devotes his entire life to a man who won't even acknowledge his presence. Talk about pathetic." 

Okay, so maybe they didn't say stuff like that. But it was certainly how I felt. And yet, nothing could convince me to leave Roger's side. He needed me -- even if he didn't say so, I knew it was true. And I wanted to be needed; I wanted that feeling that for once, I was doing more than just filming life as it happened to everyone around me. 

Speaking of my film, I had made very little progress. For the last 18 days my only new footage consisted of close-ups on Roger with my hushed narration in the background. Plus there were the rare shots of friends as they came and went, probably just checking to make sure the filmmaker and songwriter were both still alive before they carried on with their own concerns. 

"Let's cut the cake!" Maureen declared, pulling my attention back to the party. "Joanne made it herself." 

We collectively moved over to the kitchen table, drooling over the chocolate-frosted cake that had "Good luck Collins! We'll miss you," scripted on top in red and white icing. I pulled out plates and forks as Joanne cut the cake. After everyone had been served, I took a small slice over to my musician. 

"It's homemade, Roge. You should try some," I told him. Over the last few weeks I'd tried every method known to man to get him to open up. I had yelled, lectured, cried, begged, and even bribed but all to no avail. Finally I decided the only way to deal with his behavior and not go insane was to treat him normally. All I could do was be patient and hope that, like last time, he would come around eventually. 

When I ventured back over to the group in the kitchen, Collins put his arms around my shoulders. "No progress?" he asked, lowering his voice a little. 

"None whatsoever. It's only been 18 days though. When April died he didn't speak for 35 days." 

Collins raised his eyebrows. "You counted?" 

"Of course," I replied with a nonchalant shrug. "Why wouldn't I?" What kind of friend did he take me for? "Wouldn't you have done the same for Angel?" 

"Yes, but that's. . ." He stopped and considered something. "No, I suppose it's not any different at all," he said, his gaze distant, and I got the distinct feeling he was speaking to himself. I cleared my throat and his attention returned to me. "Roger's lucky to have you, Mark." 

I blushed. "I just want the best for him," I replied. Now it was my turn to be contemplative. "Did you know we've been friends since 7th grade?" 

"Wow, that long?" 

"Yep. We met in the cafeteria. Some bullies were trying to steal my lunch and he told them to leave me alone. So they stole his instead." I paused and Collins chuckled softly. "I shared my peanut butter & jelly with him that day and he had an allergic reaction the peanuts. I stayed by his side the entire day in the nurse's office, faking a stomach ache so I wouldn't have to go back to class. After that we were inseparable. We were both kind of rejects, so we stuck together and protected each other." I sighed, my eyes fastening on Roger's unmoving figure. "It probably sounds silly, but I love Roger more than anything. I'd die for him if I had to." 

"It doesn't sound silly at all. Most people wait half their lives for a friend like that," Collins said thoughtfully. "And some never do find one." 

I nodded. "I'm so lucky to have him, Collins. Even when he's like this -- I can't imagine life without him." 

"I never felt that way about anyone until I met Angel." He paused. "I didn't mean that you're gay, I just --" 

"Don't worry about it," I assured him. "I understood." 

Maureen interrupted our conversation by calling Collins to come open his presents. I grabbed my camera off the counter and began recording. 

"You guys bought gifts too?" He sounded incredulous. "I'm not worthy!" 

"Of course you are," Maureen insisted, latching on to his arm. "Here, this is from me and Joanne." She handed him a package covered in shiny blue paper with silver ribbon. 

Collins unwrapped the box and opened it. Inside was a silver pen; the initials TBC were engraved on the side in gold. "It's beautiful -- this must have cost a fortune. You can't afford this," he said, worried. 

"I got a bonus at the law firm last week," Joanne explained. "And you're worth it." 

"Thanks, you two. I love you." He hugged the couple. 

"We love you too, honey," Joanne said, furtively wiping a tear from her eye. 

"We'll miss you," Maureen added. 

Next I slid my present across the table. Collins pulled the tissue paper from a gift bag, revealing first a cowboy hat -- "So you'll fit in down there," I explained with a laugh -- then a canister of coffee. 

"Life Cafe's home brew," Collins read the label. 

"Whenever you get homesick, just make a cup and think of us," I instructed. 

"Absolutely." Collins and I embraced. "I'm still gonna miss you all, though." 

"Come home soon -- but don't get yourself expelled this time." 

He laughed. "I'll see what I can do. But don't count on it." 

"I know you too well to do that," I joked. 

"Hey, speaking of the Life, Shannon Lance is performing there tonight," Maureen interejcted, randomly as usual. Sometimes I wondered if that girl ever paid attention to the conversations going on around her, or if she was just absorbed in her own Maureen-centric world. 

"Who's Shannon Lance?" questioned a suspicious Joanne. 

"A friend. We met at my Thanksgiving protest. He's a big fan of my work," Maureen boasted. Noticing her girlfriend's madly jealous expression, she continued. "Don't worry, Pookie. He's a guy, and a gay one at that. Besides, don't you trust me?" 

"About as far as I can throw you," Joanne deadpanned. 

Maureen grinned and wrapped her arms around the woman. "Please, Pookie? I promise I'll be good. This is Shannon's first gig, and he needs moral support. He comes to every one of my protests; the least I can do is show up for his performance." I almost did a double-take at Maureen's sudden demonstration of thoughtfulness. Maybe she really did have a heart after all. 

"I wouldn't mind going and getting one last look at the place before I leave," Collins mentioned. "I'm craving one of their vegan burritos anyway." 

"Okay, we'll go," Joanne relented. "Coming, Mark?" 

I shook my head. "I think I'll stay and keep Roger company." 

"You're getting almost as bad as him," she told me, putting on her coat. "Page me if you two need anything." 

"I will." 

Collins put away his newly-acquired gifts while my camera lens followed Maureen and Joanne to the door. "Are you sure you don't want to come?" he asked. 

"I can't leave Roger," I reminded him. 

"He's depressed Mark, he's not an invalid." 

"I know that." I focused my shot on the wall behind the couch, leaving Roger in the blurry foreground. 

"You really need to get out. You're getting pale and thin and withdrawn. . . You're turning into Roger." 

I had never really thought of it that way, but Collins was more correct than I cared to admit. "I just don't want to leave him alone. I'd hate for him to think I don't care." 

"If he thinks that, he's got more problems than I realized." Collins buttoned his leather jacket and walked to the door. "I know I won't change your mind, so I'll either see you later tonight or tomorrow morning. Don't stay up too late." 

"Yes, father," I quipped. 

"Don't 'Yes, father' me. I'm not the one staying home to babysit my best friend." 

"Go have fun." 

"I will. Good night, Mark." 

"Night, Collins." 

- - - - - 

The next morning I awoke early. Collins and I spent the entire day packing. I don't think I had realized just how poor we were until I saw that all his worldly possessions fit into two large suitcases, a duffel bag, and a briefcase. And he owned about twice as much stuff as I did. 

I made dinner in the evening: a feast of Cap'n Crunch cereal, coffee, potato chips, leftover cake, and PB&J sandwiches -- one PB-less for you-know-who. Joanne and Maureen brought the minivan over to drive Collins to LaGuardia. 

After we ate, Collins and I exchanged tearful good-byes. He promised to call; I promised to take care of Roger. Then, with much less fanfare than I had envisioned, he was gone. 

I sat on the opposite end of the couch from Roger. "Guess it's just you and me now, huh?" I said, not expecting an answer. "I should go clean my room," I lied. He needed to eat and I knew he wouldn't as long as I was around watching him. 

I lay on my bed for a while, so silent that I could almost hear him chewing. Or maybe it was just my overactive imagination. I watched fifteen minutes tick by on the clock then figured it was safe to go back out. He had eaten the jelly sandwich (peach, which he liked better than the traditional grape or strawberry) and cake but not the Cap'n Crunch. Another one of his no-cereal moods. I made a mental note to fix pop-tarts the next morning. 

The rest of the night passed as usual. I read a book until around 11 PM when my eyelids started to get heavy. That meant it was time to clean the room, or fix my camera, or do some other kind of busy-work to keep me awake until midnight when, like clockwork, Roger dozed off. Only then would I allow myself to relax and get some sleep.


	4. The Time It Takes To Fall

((Okay, I lied. I decided I had to post something new before I went to sleep. So here's Chapter Three. I get a lot closer to M/R here, but the good stuff isn't gonna come for another chapter or two. Sorry. :-) Umm, read/review as usual. This is one of my favorite chapters so I hope you like it too. It's kind of short, but I got everything in it that I needed. Plenty of MarkAngst and RogerAngst. *satisfied sigh* Gotta love it. 

Disclaimer: Not my characters. Don't I wish. *imagines having Mark & Roger all to herself -- mmm, happy thought!* 

Oh yeah. Story. Here it is.)) 

  
**Anything But Lonely**

**Chapter Three: The Time It Takes To Fall**

  
Time seemed to fly with Collins gone. Almost a month passed and I barely noticed. I saw a lot less of Joanne and Maureen, since they decided to get a civil union in Vermont. They left for a week at the beginning of December, and after their return the couple was decidedly less social than before. Not that it really mattered, considering Roger and I never went out with them anyway. He was still sitting on the sofa, ignoring me. I was still taking care of him. 

Christmas Eve came and went, leading to an equally uneventful Christmas morning and afternoon. I found myself once again staring at Roger, who himself was intently focused on the carpet. The irony of the moment hit me and I held back a laugh. Mark's alone, Roger's depressed, and everyone else is gone -- things are back the way they always were. We're fools, I thought cynically, doomed to repeat ourselves interminably. 

Suddenly Roger stirred. That was unusual. I watched curiously as he reached for the pocket knife lying on the floor, where it had fallen through a hole in my coat last night. Nothing registered in my brain. "What are you--" I began blankly. Then Roger flipped it open and lifted the knife toward his wrist. "What the fuck, Roger?" I screamed, finally catching on to his intentions. 

The silver blade sliced through the air in what seemed like slow-motion, drawing dangerously closer to his flesh. I leapt at the songwriter like a mad man. No, he was the mad man, I was entirely sane. Why was he doing this? I threw myself on top of him, forcing his arms out and away from his body. He toppled backward but maintained his grip on the knife. For a minute or two we wrestled. In the scuffle the knife scraped against my arm but I didn't stop to check for blood. Finally I pinned Roger down. (I may be small, but when I have the will to do something -- watch out!) We glared at each other, our chests heaving as we both gasped for breath. "What the hell are you thinking?" I asked. "Get a grip on yourself. Don't be stupid." 

Roger's eyes grew cold and he easily tossed me off of him. Damn it, even with my will, my strength was no match for his. "Leave me alone, Mark!" he shouted, his facial features distorted by rage. Not quite what I hoped his first words to me would be. I lay on the floor beneath him, trembling, partly from anger and partly from fear. "Don''t you understand? You're not my fucking mother!" He stormed over to the table and sat cross-legged on top of it. His arms shook as he reached for his guitar. 

Carefully I pushed myself up off the floor. Warm blood trickled down my forearm but my thoughts were too scattered to realize I should clean up the wound. All I could think about was my musician and reaching out to him. "Roger --" I began shakily. "For somebody who thinks he only needs himself, who's dying without my help?" 

I had intended to sound caring and helpful, but I should have known from experience that a comment like that would only upset him more. "Oh, you want to play that game?" Roger spat back. "I can play just as well as you. For someone who wants to connect with his friends, who's on the outside looking in through a lens? Or, how about this: For someone who analyzes the past, who always sees his own mistakes last?' 

That hurt more than the gash on my arm. "What's that supposed to mean?" I asked. He didn't answer. I felt my eyes sting with hot tears. I won't let him get to me, I thought. Then the tears began flowing freely. So much for that plan. "Why do you do this?" I asked, choking on my words. "Why do you alienate yourself from me? All I ever do is try to help you. Can't you see that? I'm trying to be your best friend and you won't let me! You're all I've got anymore, Roge. You're all I care about." 

"That's bullshit," he replied. "All you care about is your damn movie. You couldn't connect with me even if you tried, because that camera's always in the way. That stupid, cheap, falling apart, 16 millimeter, God-damned camera!" He swung his arm out violently, striking the tripod next to the table. 

Involuntarily I reacted with a desperate wail as I watched my precious camera crash to the ground, broken pieces scattering everywhere. I stifled a sob and turned back to Roger. He was looking at me with wide eyes, his expression rendering shock, terror, and rage all at once. 

My face took on a cold, stony demeanor. "How dare you?" I growled. "I hate you. I never want to see you again!" 

"Well that's just fine, cuz I don't need you," he said, his volume rising. "I don't need you!" 

"Fuck you, Roger! You think you don't need me? You depend on me for everything! You wouldn't even be alive if it werenÕt for me!" 

"Maybe IÕd be better off that way!" I heard a tone of despair as he spoke; the momentary glint of sadness in his eyes practically cried out for help, tearing at my heart. I wanted to hold his body close to mine and let him sob into my chest, longed to assure him that I would always be there for him and we would get through this together. 

But as quickly as it had appeared, the moment was gone again. "Then I'd get away from you!" Roger yelled, and the only emotion I could sense was hatred. 

"Fine!" I retorted. "I'll leave. For all I care, you can shrivel up and die alone." 

"Yeah, alone -- a concept you should know well by now!" 

That was it. Through tears I managed to stumble to the door and escape. I slammed it shut and raced down the stairs, into the freezing night. I kept running, running and getting nowhere, running until I thought my lungs would burst. Better them than my heart.


	5. Who Am I

((Disclaimer: Jonathon Larson created these characters. I just dream about them. Is that pathetic or what? Anyway. Please, please, please read and review. My life depends on reviews. Seriously. It's the only thing I have to brighten my boring summer days. Oh yeah -- M/R lovers, be happy, because you're finally gonna get some in this chapter! And M/R haters. . . you are all insane, but I guess you shouldn't read this. Or maybe you should because we might be able to draw you over to our side. It's pointless to resist. You know those two belong together.)) 

  
**Anything But Lonely**

**Chapter Four: Who Am I**

  
"And now, here I sit, fifteen minutes later. Waiting as though I expect answers - but there's nobody around to answer me." I sighed. Okay, so I'd thoroughly replayed in my head all the events that got me here, now how was I supposed to I fix it? I shook my head. That, I didn't know. Maybe I couldn't fix it, I thought. Maybe Roger and I were finally over. Maybe I was meant to live and die alone. 

I stood carefully and stretched my leg muscles, which were cramping from the cold and lack of movement. Tightening the thin, worn-out coat around my shivering body, I stepped out of the alley. Across the empty street, a phone booth stood, and I ran over, scrounging for coins beneath the lint in my pocket. Impulsively I dialed a number, 430-2617, then listened in dismay to the message that played. "We're not here right now," two female voices spoke in unison. "Please leave a message," said Joanne, to which Maureen added, "And if you're lucky we'll call you back!" 

I hung up, disappointed but not surprised. I almost called another number, but soon remembered that Collins was in Texas now. "All by myself," I intoned to my nonexistent audience. "Completely and utterly alone." 

I trudged a block down to the Life Cafe and ordered my usual -- coffee, black with sugar. Just like my life, I thought. No matter how much I try to sugar-coat it, I can't cover up its bitter blackness. 

Was it just two Christmases ago, I wondered, that I sat in the loft, watching in boyish wonder as Angel explained how she made a thousand dollars? Just two Christmases ago that Roger, Collins, Angel, and I fantasized about living a peaceful, perfect life in Santa Fe? Where was the innocent, happy Mark that existed then? At what point was he replaced by this forlorn, dejected, shadow of a man? 

I leaned against the window, sipping my drink as people scurried past outside. "They're alone, too. Must be a New York thing," I mumbled under my breath. "A city with seven million inhabitants, every one of them blind and invisible, wandering around in some pointless, dizzying rat race and totally forgetting what really matters." I glanced around quickly, relieved that nobody in the nearly empty restaurant appeared to have overheard my ramblings. 

Suddenly a high-pitched voice rang out across -- or more accurately, pierced through -- the room. "Hi Marky!" It was a voice only one person could love -- well, two people, I guess, until I got over her. 

"Maureen, hi," I replied wearily. "I tried to call you." 

"What's wrong?" the perky redhead asked, her brow furrowed. She sounded genuinely concerned -- a rare characteristic. 

Don't kid yourself, I thought immediately. She's only being polite. "Nothing," I responded. 

"No, something's wrong," Maureen insisted, pulling up a chair. "Tell me." 

"Roger and I --" I began, then stopped. "Never mind, no one cares anyway." 

Maureen frowned. "Come on, Marky, what's the matter?" She watched me silently slide the coffee cup back and forth, across the table. "I'm worried about you, Mark," she stated with a sigh. "I've seen you do this before and it's not good for you." 

"Since when did you become the expert on emotional well-being?" I muttered cynically. 

She ignored this comment. "Seriously, you're doing this to yourself, you know." 

I looked up sharply. "What do you mean?" 

"You're shutting yourself off from everyone. You don't even give people the chance to care, because you're so sure they won't." 

I scowled but said nothing. 

"Think about it. When was the last time you left the loft -- or turned off your camera?" 

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm out of the loft and the camera's gone," I snapped. Getting angry seemed better than crying like a child again. 

"Calm down, honey." Maureen stroked my arm comfortingly. 

"How can I calm down? That was my entire life!" I had to restrain myself from screaming. "Now it's destroyed and I have nothing left except Roger -- but I don't have him anymore either!" 

"Shh." Maureen raised a finger to her lips. "You'll survive. You always do, remember? I don't even know what happened, but I do know Roger will make up with you and everything will be okay. He's going through a hard time right now." 

"You think I don't know that? I'm the one who takes care of him every fucking day, cooking his meals and making sure he takes his AZT." 

"I know. And he loves you for it." 

"He hates me." 

"Mark! Stop convincing yourself to be miserable. " Maureen shook her head in frustration. "Don't you realize what you have? You and Roger have the best, closest friendship I've ever seen. Sure, you have your hard times, like all friends do. But the love, the bond that you two share . . . well, it's just beyond words." She smiled at me. "I see the way you stare at him when you think nobody's paying attention. You have this look in your eyes, like -- like you're just so amazed that he's actually real and here with you. 

"And you know what? You never notice it, but when you're not looking he does the same thing." I remembered the photograph from Mimi's scrapbook but didn't mention it. "You're so oblivious to each other sometimes, but everyone else sees how much you both care.That's part of the reason so many people think you're gay when they first meet you." Maureen giggled and I blushed, embarassed. 

"It's a good thing, though. Really," Maureen continued. "You know, sometimes when we were together, you paid so much attention to Roger that I thought you'd rather go out with him than me." Now she was the one blushing. 

"That's not true, you know how much I loved you," I protested. 

She nodded. "No, I know. And I knew it then too. Maybe I was just looking for reasons to be disappointed with you. I mean, you hardly gave me any." When I eyed her strangely, she quietly went on. "I know I was a bitch. Okay, maybe in some ways I still am. But people can change." 

"They say love brings out the best in a person," I mused. 

Maureen smiled, almost glowing with that peaceful, content aura that only people in true love have. "It really does," she replied softly. "And you'll find it too someday. Cheer up, Marky." Maureen flashed her trademark grin and kissed me on the cheek. 

I remembered a time when that grin would have made me melt into her hands, instantly forgiving whatever sin she had committed. I also remembered another time when that casual, passing kiss would have overwhelmed me with heartache and longing. Now I could accept it the same way it was offered: as a friendly greeting, no deeper meaning attached. 

"I've gotta go," Maureen said. "I just left to get milk at the Food Emporium but when I walked by I noticed you in here." 

"Okay, well. . . talk to ya later. Wish Joanne a Merry Christmas for me." 

She nodded. "Sure, and tell Roger the same for me." 

"If I ever see him again," I snorted. 

"You are the most stubborn person I know. . . well, except for Joanne." She giggled again. "Love ya, babe." 

After she departed, I downed the rest of my coffee and paid before stepping outside. I couldn't stop thinking about Roger, and about what Maureen had said. I was still in a sort of shock from the wisdom of her words. I must have really been cutting myself off from people because I never noticed how much she had matured in recent months. Joanne certainly brought out the best in Maureen. For a fleeting moment I was jealous of the happy couple. 

That emotion was quickly replaced by a much more familiar and disturbing one: the cold, sinking dread of loneliness. I couldn't bear to go another day feeling like this. No matter what it took, I had to stop withdrawing from people, I had to stop pitying myself, I had to -- I had to find Roger. 

My brain could hardly keep up as my body sprinted down the sidewalk. Faster and faster I went until, wheezing asthmatically for air, I arrived at the loft. I bolted up the stairs to the door, then my heart sank. My pockets were empty. In my haste I'd forgotten to take the keys off the kitchen counter. 

I banged loudly on the door but Roger didn't answer. "Come on, Roge, let me in!" I shouted, rattling the door knob. "I live here too, you know!" When it became apparent that the door was not going to be opened, I leaned forward and rested my head against it. "What a shitty day," I groused. 

Unexpectedly a hand touched my shoulder, startling me. "Looking for these?" I heard a soft, throaty voice ask. 

Roger! I turned around. "I thought you were. . ." I trailed off, losing my train of thought, losing myself as I looked into his eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes that always seemed to be dreaming and creating. For the first time since Mimi died, I recognized a certain. . . Rogerness in them, that indescribable quality that had always drawn me to the songwriter. The first time our eyes met, way back in 7th grade, I knew Roger and I were soul mates. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I was wrong. I'm an asshole and I hope you can forgive me." 

I was left speechless. For Roger those three sentences were more emotion than he usually exhibited in a few months. Instead of responding, I slipped my arms around his shoulders. He tensed up initially, like he always did when someone touched him. But after an instant he relaxed, drawing me closer and pressing his cheek against my hair. A warm sense of comfort and safety flooded into me. I don't know that I realized how sorely I had missed his touch until that moment. 

We stood like that for several minutes, until a chilly draft blew up the stairwell and Roger let us inside. 

I peeled off my jacket and collapsed onto the couch. Roger joined me there, and I could tell from his expression that he was grasping either for words or for courage to say them. Maybe both. 

"It's okay, Roge. You don't have to say anything." 

"Yes, I do," he blurted. "Mark, you've done nothing but help me for the last month, and how did I repay you? By ignoring you. And when I finally did talk to you, it was to insult you, and curse, and tell you to leave!" Roger placed his head in his hands, sighing. 

"You were depressed and grieving, that's natural," I tried to explain. 

"It's no excuse though. God, Mark -- I'm really sorry." 

I touched his arm gently. "I forgive you." 

He looked up at me with a pathetic, remorseful smile that threatened to melt my heart away. But it was obvious that something was still unresolved in his mind. "I -- I want you to know," he stuttered. "I really do appreciate you. I don't say it or show it much, but I do." 

The words seemed almost foreign coming out of Roger's mouth. This had to have taken a lot of guts, for a man so accustomed to holding back his emotions to be as open as Roger was being. 

"You don't have to shield yourself from me," I promised. "Think about how long we've been friends. I know you better than you know you. I love you, Roge, and no matter what happens I'll be here for you." I paused to think. "Sharing things with me doesn't make you weak. Asking for help when you need it doesn't make you weak. What makes you weak is cowering and being afraid to open your life up to someone else. I should know -- I've been there too." 

"It's hard," Roger whispered. "I don't want to lose anyone again." 

"You can't help that, it's a fact of life. What are you gonna do when Collins dies? He's got AIDS too. We can't deny that it will happen sooner or later. But it doesn't have to mean we die inside when it happens. There's a reason for everything, Roge." I lifted my hand to touch his cheek, not fully cognizant of what I was doing or saying. "There's a reason we were put together." 

"What's that?" Roger's throat was dry and hoarse. 

"To protect each other. To love and take care of each other. To get through life's problems together, and to help each other become better people. Now it's up to us to actually do all those things and stay together." 

"Always," Roger said, placing a hand on my shoulder. 

Our eyes locked and we both fell silent. Then, as if possessed by some unknown force, I leaned in toward Roger. He also inched forward, until after what seemed like hours, our lips met. The kiss was soft and uncertain. Slowly we both parted our lips, allowing our tongues to brush ever-so-slightly. Then, in the same hesitant way it had started, Roger and I pulled apart. 

I stared at him, entranced and frightened at the same time. Thousands of thoughts whirled around inside my head: what had I just done? What if I just ruined our friendship irreparably? Why did he kiss me back? And how the hell could something so obviously wrong feel so natural and so. . . right? 

"Oh God," Roger muttered under his breath. He began shaking. "I -- I -- I need to. . ." Without completing his sentence, he turned and broke our eye contact. 

"Roger, wait!" I called, but he disappeared into his bedroom and slammed the door. 

Shit. This was not at all what I had planned, or even imagined. Right when we had started making progress, I had to go and mess up everything. He would probably never speak to me again. And why? Because I fucking kissed him! What kind of an idiot pulled a stunt like that on his best friend? 

"Wait a second," I thought, "It takes two to tango. He kissed you, too." 

Did this mean we were gay? I didn't even like guys, and Roger sure as hell didn't either! I tried to think of any other man I was even vaguely attracted to, and found none. Why, then, did I enjoy kissing Roger so much? Why, after 15 years, would I choose now to develop romantic feelings for him? Was that even what I felt? I didn't know anything. I needed sleep. Hopefully in the morning Roger would come out. 

Wait, I didn't mean that. Come out. . . oh God, I was going insane! I drifted absentmindently to my room, trying to shake the confusion that plagued me. Several hours passed before I was able to relax and let comforting slumber overtake my exhausted body. 

((More to come soon, I promise.))


	6. Born To Lose

((Disclaimer: You should know this by now, but I owe these characters and my inspiration for writing about them to Jonathon Larson. Your memory lives on here and in the hearts of all Rent fans. Everybody, please read & review if you haven't already. I updated this just a little -- thanks Linnel for pointing out my amnesia/insomnia mistake. That's what happens when it's four AM and you refuse to go to sleep until you finish writing. Grr.)) 

  
**Anything But Lonely**

**Chapter Five: Born To Lose**

  
Roger did, um, leave his room the next morning, but no words were spoken. He grabbed his coffee and toast (which I had prepared when I woke up, like any normal day) and perched on the table. Well, at least it wasn't the couch anymore. 

I crept toward him, sitting on the other side of the table. Gradually I scooted in -- and each time I did, Roger moved further away. When he finally reached the table's edge, he hopped down and relocated to the couch. 

I let out an exasperated sigh. "This is ridiculous," I said, breaking the silence. "Can't we just be adults and talk about this?" 

"There's nothing to talk about. We both know what happened last night." Roger wouldn't meet my imploring gaze. 

"Well, what happens now?" 

"Isn't that obvious?" He sounded so ominous, it was almost cheesy. "We pretend it never happened. We never, ever mention it again." 

His words stung me unexpectedly. "Just like that, huh? It's over before it even started." 

Finally Roger's anguished eyes met mine. "Before what started? I'm not gay, Mark! And I never will be!" 

"Great, fine, neither am I!" I shouted. "I'm no gayer than you are. But -- you can't say it didn't mean anything." 

"I can say anything I want!" 

"That doesn't make it true." 

"It is true! I mean, it isn't! I mean --" Roger paused, confused. "Look, we were both feeling vulnerable and it just happened. You know you're my best friend in the world. But being gay is for people like Collins and Angel --" 

"Are you saying they're bad people?" 

He looked surprised. "No! Of course not." 

"It seems like you're saying that." 

"Well, I'm not." 

"Well, that's what you implied." 

"No, it's what you inferred, because you want to make me the bad guy and you the victim, just like every argument we ever have." 

"You think I like confrontation?" I asked. "You're the one who always starts things, knowing full well that I just want everyone to get along." 

"Do not." 

"Do too." 

"What are we, kindergarteners?" Roger said, raising his voice a few pitches. "Can we get back to whatever this was really about?" 

"Sure, let's talk about your homophobia." 

"Why don't you just shut up, Mark? I'm not a fucking homophobe, okay? Just because I'm straight doesn't make me homophobic." 

"Hello? I'm straight too!" 

"Great!" 

"Great!" I felt like an idiot. It ended like this every time. Roger and Mark argue like a cross between grade-schoolers and an old, married couple. Then Mark gives in to make Roger happy and get things back to normal. "Okay, you're right, let's just act like it never happened," I concurred. "We were best friends before, we're best friends now, nothing changes, right?" 

Roger gave a curt nod and strummed a few lines of Musetta's Waltz. That was one of his "subtle" hints that he wanted a conversation to be over. So I gave him what he wanted. 

"I'm gonna go to the grocery store. I haven't been shopping since. . . well, in a long time." I received no reply. "Okay, see ya later," I said, remembering to take the keys as I walked out the door. 

- - - - - 

"Hey, Roge, I'm home," I called when I returned from the store. I sat four paper bags on the kitchen counter and glanced around. The loft was quiet and there was no sign of Roger. Then I spotted a yellow post-it note attached to the fridge. On it, Roger had scrawled: 

_"Left for Santa Fe. Had to sort some things out. I'll call."_

This couldn't be happening! Damn Roger! I had thought he was over his run-away-from-troubles stage. But apparently I gave the boy too much credit. 

Sadly I wandered into his bedroom. All his important things were gone -- clothes, music equipment, and the box of Mimi's stuff labeled "ROGER'S." I sank down onto his bed, fighting back tears. Be a man, Mark, I mentally ordered myself. For once in your life, be a man. 

The phone rang. Immediately I sprang out of the room and picked up the receiver. "Roger?" I asked. 

"No, it's me." 

"Oh, hi, Joanne." 

"Don't get too excited," she said sarcastically. 

"I'm sorry, it's just -- I really hoped it would be Roger." 

"Maureen told me about your fight last night. I assume you didn't work things out?" 

"No, not exactly." 

"What do you mean?" 

"Well, we talked last night and I thought everything was gonna be alright. Then. . . something happened, and today he took off for Santa Fe." 

"Oh no," Joanne murmured. "I'm so sorry. What could have made him do that?" 

I sighed, deciding I didn't want to tell anyone yet. Not until I understood things for myself. "I haven't a clue." 

"Well, if there's anything Maureen or I can do, let us know." 

"I will. Thanks." 

"Anytime, honey." 

I hung up the phone feeling worse than when I had answered it. The loneliness was back in full effect, corroding my heart, overwhelming me. Every sight, every sound, every movement I made aroused memories of the songwriter. He haunted my thoughts like a wraith: his eyes, his hair, the scruffy little patch on his chin that he called a goatee, his music, his voice. . . 

His voice. God, I would have given anything to hear it one more time. "Please call, Roger, please," I begged silently. 

That night I lie awake in bed until 3 AM, partially from insomnia and partially hoping that Roger would fulfill his promise to call. Needless to say, he didn't, so after a few days, I reluctantly gave up hope. 

((Hang on, folks, I've got one more chapter to put the finishing touches on and then I'll post it. Hope y'all (can you tell I'm from Texas?) like my story so far.))


	7. It Had To Be You

((Here it is, kiddos! The final chapter. Yay!! *applause* Umm... it's yummy. I hope you like it. Please review now that it's finished. Oh, and Kait, the DarkSide is so incredibly delicious. You have corrupted me forever -- thank you so much!!! 

Disclaimer: The characters in my story no longer belong to Jonathon Larson, because they are mine, all mine. (Just kidding, in case that wasn't obvious.) Please don't sue me because I have nothing for you to win and I'm too darn tired to defend myself in a court of law. I wonder if Mr. Larson knew how much sleep deprivation he would cause for obsessive Rentfic writers. Oh well, I wouldn't want to change even if I could.)) 

  
**Anything But Lonely**

**Chapter Six: It Had To Be You**

  
"Happy Valentine's Day, Pookie!" 

"Happy Valentine's Day, Honeybear!" 

I watched in dismay as Maureen and Joanne kissed passionately, about six feet away from me. Sure, I was happy for them, but I had been pretty depressed since Christmas, and watching my ex and her girlfriend make out was not exactly helping. Today was supposed to represent love and companionship, but for me Valentine's Day had always been another unsolicited reminder of my rightful place in this world: nowhere. 

"Smile, Marky," Maureen told me. "You're acting like you just lost your best friend." 

I stared at her, wondering if she was being serious. That girl could be such a ditz sometimes. "I did," I reminded her. 

She rolled her eyes. "But not permanently. He'll come back." 

"You're too optimistic." 

"No, you're too pessimistic." 

"Only when it's necessary." 

"But it's not! You two are inseparable." 

"It's been nearly two months. If Roger was returning, he'd be here by now." 

Joanne placed a hand on my leg, ending our bickering. "Then maybe it's time to move on." 

"I can't move on that quickly. Roger meant everything to me. He still does." 

"Well it's obvious how much you mean to him," Maureen blurted, eliciting a slap on the thigh from Joanne. "Sorry, that was rude. I didn't mean to --" 

"No," I interrupted, "it's true. I guess I am holding on to the past. I need to let go and move on with my life." 

"See? The first step is admitting you have a problem." Maureen grinned brightly. A well-intended but poorly-received attempt to cheer me up. 

"I guess." I shrugged. 

"Ooh! I know what you need," she said, as if she had just gotten a brilliant idea. 

"Hmm?" 

"A girlfriend." 

I shook my head emphatically. "No." 

"Come on, I know the perfect girl. It'll get your mind off of Roger." 

Joanne sensed my apprehension. "I don't think he's ready to move on," she told Maureen. 

"Please, it's not like he's in love with Roger." 

I stared down at the table to hide my furiously blushing face. "Um, I should go," I said. 

"Why?" Maureen didn't seem to notice my embarassment, thankfully. 

"Oh, I've got a lot to do. . . errands to run, you know." To be honest I just wanted to get out before I accidentally revealed too much. 

"Have fun. Are you coming over for dinner tomorrow?" Joanne asked. 

"I don't know. We'll see. Probably. My schedule's not exactly bursting at the seams." I quickly excused myself and left the apartment. 

I'm not really sure why I didn't want them to know what had happened between Roger and me. After all, they certainly weren't going to look down on me for being gay. But I didn't think I was gay. I was in love with Roger, that I had come to accept as fact. 

But I didn't love Roger because he was a man. I loved Roger because he was Roger. I loved him because he knew all of my secrets and I knew all of his. I loved him because he could make me laugh when the rest of the world made me want to cry. I loved him because when I was sick he would feed me chicken soup and read to me until I got better. I loved him because we fit together so perfectly, like two halves that comprise a whole. It just made sense. Alone we were each one person, but together -- together we were MarkandRoger. Like it was meant to be that way. 

That didn't mean I was gay, did it? And so what if it did? This was the end of the millennium, and I was a modern guy. I'm allowed to be gay if I want, I thought. Or straight, or bisexual, or even trisexual; it didn't matter. 

Except that it did matter. It mattered because Roger was too scared. To him, if he confessed to being anything but strictly heterosexual, that would make him wimpy and effeminate. And nothing was more sacred to Roger than his toughness and masculinity. 

In other words, I would never have any chance with my songwriter. 

I arrived at the loft just as the telephone rang. "We screen," I said. Old habits are hard to break. 

The answering machine began recording, and for a few seconds all I heard was silence. Then a voice quietly said, "Mark." One word was all I needed to know who was calling. "It's me. Pick up the phone." He paused. I deliberated whether I should answer or ignore it. "Please, Mark. We need to talk." 

"We needed to talk two months ago," I corrected, even though he couldn't hear me. "There's nothing left to say." 

"I know you're there. Please pick up." He sighed loudly. "Fine. I'll call later in case you change your mind. Bye." 

Suddenly I rushed toward the phone. "Wait!" I cried, reaching for the receiver. The only reply I received was a dial tone. 

Shit. Why didn't I pick up? My emotions whirled torrentially through my mind; I didn't know what to feel. What if he was calling to apologize? Or was it too late for apologies? Maybe he just needed some cash. Hell, for all I knew, maybe he was inviting me to his wedding. 

That caused a wild pang of jealousy to stab at my chest. For the first time I realized a frightening possibility: the moment had meant everything to me, might have meant nothing to him. It wasn't that he was afraid to commit or admit his feelings. It was that he didn't even have any feelings to begin with. 

I swear, sometimes it's a miracle my head doesn't overheat and explode from thinking. This really must be detrimental to health. I shifted my brain into auto-pilot, letting my feet lead me to the nearest movie theater. I purchased a ticket: "Attack of the Ooze-Filled Sewer Creatures." Sounded good. 

An hour and a half later, I walked home, my stomach queasy from the film. What I saw when I opened the door, though, made me forget all about the lousy, plotless movie. 

Sitting cross-legged on the table, facing the door, was Roger. "Hi," he said nervously. 

I opened my mouth but no words came out. 

"I, uh -- I came back." 

"No shit," I said, finally regaining my voice. "How'd you get here so quick? You just called a few hours ago." 

"I called from the pawnshop." 

"Where you bought back your guitar, I guess?" Before he could answer, I continued. "What the hell do you want, Roger?" 

He didn't speak for at least a minute or two. Then he cleared his throat, swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and responded: "You." 

My eyebrows shot through the roof. He couldn't have said what I had just heard. "Come again?" I squeaked dryly. 

"I want you, Mark. I tried to deny it to myself -- that's why I left -- but I can't anymore. I know I can be a prick sometimes but I never meant to hurt you and I'm sorry. I'd do anything to have you back in my life." He inhaled sharply, having said all that in one breath. 

I examined Roger closely. His eyes were wide and frightened; he was wringing his hands in a nervous gesture I remembered him doing during oral presentations in high school. This was incredible. Almost unbelievable. 

Still, I couldn't let myself forget what he had done. "So, this is what you expect, huh?" I said bitterly. "Roger vanishes for two months then comes back to find the filmmaker he abandoned running eagerly into his open arms." 

"I made a mistake, okay? I am human, you know," Roger snapped. When he realized the tone he had used, his voice softened immediately. "I got freaked out. I thought if I admitted how I felt about you, that it would change who I was. I needed time to realize that. . . that. . ." 

"That it was who you were all along," I completed his sentence. 

He nodded silently, giving me a curious look. 

"I know what you mean. I wouldn't face the truth for a while either, but I guess it was always there." 

Roger took a tentative step closer to me. He slipped a hand behind my neck, sending a shiver through me. Our lips touched, and every memory I had with him seemed to flash before my eyes. I reached my hands up to his face, my fingers traveling along his jawline until they combed into his hair. 

Kissing Roger was unlike any experience I'd ever had. I thought I knew everything about him. But when we kissed, an element of excitement, of newness and discovery, hit me. Even though we had kissed once before, this felt like the first time all over again. Roger and I already shared an intense connection, but now were being exposed to a new, previously unrevealed side of each other. 

I could've stayed like that for eternity, but eventually we both pulled away. I held my breath, fearing in some small recess of my head that Roger might run away again. But he didn't; all he did was look at me and -- smile! He actually smiled, something I hadn't seen him do in a good three or four months. And I was the cause of his happiness. Me, the guy who always sat on the sidelines, watching life and love happen to everyone else. Now, I thought, maybe I've found love too. 

"I, uh. . . I got you something." Roger dug into a nearby suitcase. "That's why I was at the pawn shop." 

"Really? What is it?" 

He pulled something from the luggage and thrust it in my direction. "This." 

"Oh my God," I murmured. He held a camera, nearly identical to my old one except in perfect condition. "You didn't have to do this." 

"Yes," he insisted. "Yes, I really did. I'm the reason yours broke. I wanted to make it up to you." 

I wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders. "Thank you so much, Roge. I love it." 

"I would have gotten you a better, more modern one, but I know how persnickety you are when it comes to your films and I --" He noticed me snicker and stopped in mid-sentence. "What?" 

"Nothing. You said persnickety." I stifled another chuckle. 

"Yeah. So?" 

"It was cute." 

He grinned and kissed me softly, his strong hands encircling my waist. "I should tell you," he began, "I --" 

"Shh." I silenced my musician by placing a finger to his lips. "You don't have to, I already know everything I need to know." 

He took my outstretched hand, placing it in his. Our fingers interlaced and I felt something that had been missing for a very long time: a sense of completion. This was what I had needed, all my life. It was what we both needed, it just took us thirteen and a half years to figure it out. 

Roger's beeper went off. When he didn't move I asked, "Have you been taking your AZT?" 

He looked down sheepishly. "I ran out and couldn't afford more. It's not like here. You can hardly find it on the streets in Santa Fe. Only doctors can get it for you, and --" 

"You didn't want to go to the doctor," I finished. "I know." 

"But I didn't have the money either, I swear. That stuff's expensive when you have to buy it legit." 

"You could afford a camera,", I pointed out. 

"Exactly. I was saving all my money to buy it for you." 

"How long ago did you run out?" I asked worriedly. 

"Just a few days ago. Calm down, Mark, I'm okay. Really. As long as I start taking it again." 

I grabbed my coat from the table. "I'm gonna go get you some more. I'll be back soon." 

Roger kissed my forehead. "What would I do without you?" 

"Not much, and that's exactly why you better never leave me again." 

"I won't. I mean that." He watched me walk to the door. "Bye." Then he added, more quietly, "I love you." 

I stopped in my tracks, surprised. "I love you too," I replied, then I headed outside, my new camera in tow. 

In the street, I turned the camera on and began recording. "Zoom in on the window of the loft," I narrated. "Inside, Roger has finally come home. I guess it's never too late to start over. For me or for him. He's changed -- but in a good way this time. He's becoming the Roger he used to be, the Roger he was before New York, and April, and drugs. My Roger." 

I turned, panning across the 11th street lot. "And I think I'm changing too, back to the old Mark. I'll never regain the innocence I lost in the last few years, but maybe the happiness and sense of belonging will return. As long as I've got Roger, I'll never have to be lonely again." I smiled with satisfaction and hit the power button. Then I lowered the camera to my side and walked off in search of an AZT vendor. 

- - - - -

((Whew! Finally done! It seems strange to think I've spent the last three weeks of my life on almost nothing but this story. It feels nice to have it finished, but now I keep thinking of things I need to explore here. So I might write a sequel from Roger's POV. It won't be as long as this story, though. I don't think I've ever written anything as long as this, not even formal papers for school. Sheesh. Well, please review for me, I'd really like to know what y'all think, and if you think a sequel's worth writing here.))


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